A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes
by Pheo
Summary: A fluffy little piece in which our favorite Metamorphmagus drives our favorite resident werewolf…nuts.


**Title:** A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes (1 of a hopeful 4)

**By:** Pheo  
**Summary:** A fluffy little piece in which our favorite Metamorphmagus drives our favorite resident werewolf…nuts. : -) Written for the Metamorfic Moon Last Chance Full Moon Showdown at LiveJournal. My prompt was "dream."

Scratching his chin with the feathers of an old quill, Remus squinted at the map, shook his head, and sighed. It was three in the morning and he still hadn't made heads or tails of what this new information meant in terms of the recent tip they'd received from Kingsley. It was vague to begin with, but Remus was beginning to wonder if it had any merit at all.

Rotating his neck left, then right, he glanced at his clock—2:45 AM. He winced after taking a very large gulp from what was now some very cold tea, and promptly decided it was time for a refill—and a break.

Quietly making his way down the stairs, he started to creep past the library when he heard a woman's moan.

Frowning, Remus wondered if Molly was having difficulty with sleeping again—or worse, another incident with a boggart. The poor woman had already been through so much during the last war, and in this one, she had much more to lose.

Craning his neck into the room, he could make out a presumably slumbering form draped over the settee. Judging from the large silver buckles gleaming off the rather enormous black boot dangling off the edge, it was likely the Order's multitalented—and likely exhausted and overworked—Auror, Nymphadora Tonks.

Remus's heart skipped a beat as, upon closer inspection, he realized that he had been correct. Her hair, a dark, raspberry pink, spilled upon her shoulders, softly curling at the ends where it met the worn suede of the settee. Though they were closed, he imagined that her eyes were lovely—

_they were_ always _lovely_—

as they fluttered while she dreamed. Her pink lips were parted, and he could see the tip of an even pinker tongue barely gracing her bottom lip—

_just as he'd imagined his own doing so many times_—

and little dewdrops of sweat dotted her face, her neck, glittering a path into the hint of cleavage provided by her form-fitting Weird Sisters t-shirt, where one hand curved over a perfectly-shaped breast and slowly squeezed…

_Dear god…_

Feeling his own brow begin to drip with sweat, Remus began backing away, every so lightly—or, as lightly as he could manage, rather, given his new state of discomfort—when she moaned again—a guttural, jazz songstress sound—

And he suddenly found himself sprawled into the armchair he had apparently backed himself into.

Torn between making a run for it and staying put, Remus couldn't help but stare, dry-mouthed, as the hand squeezed yet again, and Tonks let out a lingering sigh that made Remus think that if sound were sex, he would have just witnessed—heard?—the most alluring note of satisfaction.

Mentally chastising himself for the thousandth time over ogling his beautiful but

(_young_)

off-limits colleague, he couldn't help but note that someone else's mind also appeared to be on matters that had nothing to do with war this evening.

_Yes, but_ she _is unconscious, you lecherous old git. And you're intruding on her privacy._

Though it took him longer than he'd have liked to tear his eyes away, Remus started to get up but stopped once again when she said, "Remus."

He froze, knees bent, torso half-off the chair.

This couldn't be happening.

She'd seen him!

He cleared his throat and lowered himself back into his chair. "Erm," he began guiltily, "ah, I do apologise for intruding… I only—ah, Nymphadora?"

Though she was smiling, he expected her to reprimand him for calling her Nymphadora, call him a filthy old perverted werewolf, and hex his nether regions into something that would make future filthy, perverted thoughts useless.

But her eyes remained closed, and she said nothing.

He raised his eyebrows. "Nymphadora?"

She let out another one of those sighs that made his chest ache but said nothing. He slowly leaned forward in the chair, only to be rewarded with yet another low, "Remus."

"Erm," he mumbled again, confused. Was she angry with him?

"What, ah, that is to say, that I— erm?" he fumbled, trying to understand that strange, enticing little smile on her face.

The smile widened as her hand drifted a bit lower, smoothing itself over her skin as if she were slowly rubbing in some sweet oil into her abdomen. "Oh… _Remus_," she moaned.

He gulped.

_Indeed._

She--_did_ she?

Remus of all people knew that dreams were not an indication of reality in any sense. In fact, he had himself just woken up from a strange dream of himself, Professor McGonagall

(_Minerva_)

and Kingsley in Swedish mountaineering costumes (oddly sporting Minerva's trademark tartan pattern),

(_or perhaps not-so-oddly…_)

engaged in some type of modern Muggle dance involving quite a bit of buttocks movement and seemingly painful hip rotation that very morning.

Of course, Remus knew this was simply a manifestation combined from his most recent stakeout at a Muggle club, a meeting with Minerva and Kingsley that followed shortly after, and… well, he was still having trouble deciphering the meaning of the costumes, but that proved his point, did it not? Dreams rarely made sense, and rarely applied to real, daily life.

But then…it had been preceded by a rather delicious dream involving Nymphadora, just as many

(_most_)

okay, most

(_all_)

of his dreams did.

In this particular one, she had been sporting pink knickers that matched the shade of hair that he liked best on her, sprawled out on his four-poster bed at Hogwarts on top of his NEWT study guides, two quills crisscrossed in her hair like feathered pins…

It was definitely time to return to the map.

But it was rather difficult, seeing as Tonk's shirt, taut and teeny to begin with, had begun to ride up her stomach, exposing a bit of creamy flesh that, Remus had to admit to his scolding conscience, was much more appealing, much more open for exploration than that faded piece of parchment on his desk.

Though he'd never felt more immobile in his life, Remus shook himself and willed his feet to turn. Just as he managed to pry his unwilling loafers from the carpet and turned toward the door, a strangled, "Yes!" filled the room—followed by a loud thump.

Face red, Remus twisted to see a freshly-tumbled Tonks

(_from the settee! Freshly-tumbled from, er, off the settee--_)

groggily sitting up from her new location on the floor, parallel to his slack shoes.

"Bollocks," she mumbled. "Was just having the most amazing…" she trailed off, and, seeing Remus and his reluctant footwear, promptly turned a shade of pink that didn't help a whit with his current restrictive state.

However, his feelings for her safety trumped his physical predicament and he rushed toward her, helping her up. "Nymphadora, are you alright?"

"Don't call me Nymphadora, Remus," she muttered automatically, groggily, her face still flushed as she ran a hand distractedly through her hair—but all he heard was his name

(_Oh… Remus_)

falling again from her lips— and what sweet lips they were, too; shimmering there, right in front of his face, and he could just see them on his body, feel them on his neck, taste them—

"Erm." Remus resisted the urge to adjust his trousers. "I must—I must run now, lots of work to do, of course, for the—for the Order…"

As he hastily made his exit, Tonks called after him.

He popped his head back in the room, notably concealing the lower half of his body. "Yes?"

"What--" she yawned, sleepily gesturing around the library. "You weren't here when I came in. What were you doing in here?"

Remus glanced at the first thing he saw on the shelf to his left

(_Hairy Snout, Human Heart_)

and said, "Books."

Tonks raised an eyebrow at him, apparently more fully awake.

"I was—doing research. I needed a book." He gave her a quick smile. "Goodnight, Nymphadora!"

This time when she called out after him, he didn't stop, but he could still hear her puzzle, "What book?" to his retreating, notably bookless form.


End file.
